On Opulence
by shipwrecked souls
Summary: Louis is dead. An admittedly conflicted Frenchman trades away his valor at home for a different sort of audacity in the enemy's land. (Written for a FrUK Secret Santa.)


_**On Opulence**_

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_**January 22, 1793**_

_**London**_

"You have nerve to come here."

When heads start tumbling, he keeps the fireplace burning past sundown and ahead of sunup, as if to beat back ghosts from the hearth (of which he is more friend than lord). Of course, ghosts never do vanish. Only flit and slumber and hang from the hiding places beneath one's brow. Still, concealment is a soldier's first skill.

"And I know you bastards intend to declare war on us," England continues with a low growl as he paces the room. "Isn't that the plan?"

"No." France's smile is thin. One arm draped over Aubusson pillows from his position on the couch as he lounges like a lazy cat. "You _and_ the Netherlands."

"Whatever."

It's only a matter of time now, he knows. The darkness that crests their silhouettes may obscure nighttime horrors, but cannot wash out the blood that still stains Parisian handkerchiefs. And now he does not even feel safe in his own home. After all, he is well aware of how this looks, cohabiting with enemies at a time when tensions are bursting from veins and dripping down bone.

_Damn him._

"I had to come, you know," France murmurs, twisting the collar of his cotton vest between pale fingers. "It is... no longer safe in Paris."

England snorts, almost cruelly. "No shit. Your king's head is gone."

His face darkens. "I know."

"And I hear that he wasted his last free days locksmithing instead of placating the masses," Arthur drawls. "_Locksmithing._ Rather unfortunate."

"He was... indecisive." France swallows with a lump in his throat. "Shy. Was taught the value of austerity from childhood. But the evidence was overwhelming. Thirty-three charges in total, even if Desèze did his best."

His posture on the couch remains relaxed like the curved blade of an aristocrat's sword, but England is not fooled. Even now, he can see the cracks in his composure, the way he keeps his elbows pressed against the cushions, perpetually ready to push him to his feet. That tenseness. It accompanies him now to court and even to bed, a habitual reminder that sheathes his voice and sharpens his ears.

"If this continues, you'll be next."

"Ah, no need to be so dramatic," France laughs nervously as he waves his hands vaguely in the air. "After all, I understand the anger of the peasantry. _I_ have never done anything to hurt them. Surely they would not prosecute a fellow revolutionary sympathizer?

"Hmph."

They dwell in a silence as aged as Madeira wine as night sheds London noises from the drawing room. On the wall, the faceless disk of a clock chimes midnight. The world is falling asleep, and with it falls the cocoon of talking footsteps that encircle the house in light. In its place, darkness flutters—upon cloaked furniture, over gilded tables draped with cloth and soon to be abandoned by army boy. _Almost as if—_

And then without warning, Francis's fingers begin unbuttoning. His vest drops first, and then the blue ribbon in his ponytail, until his face is flushed with sudden heat. Breath quickening, he repositions himself on the couch, sinking the brunt of his weight into leather as he shifts to face Arthur.

He spreads his legs—and bites his lip at England through a half-lidded gaze.

"Arthur," he breathes.

And something about the gesture ignites a deep, visceral emotion within him—something akin, he realizes, to _disgust_. Here is Francis, the personification of the _régime_ and all those who suffered under it, escaping his country to forget _who he is_ when the question is loading guns. Like the _coward_ he is.

"They say Louis deserted his duties," Arthur snaps coldly, curling his lip. "And now you come running all the way across the Channel to _fuck_?"

If Francis is hurt, he hides it well. "It is how us deviants conduct our business, yes."

Something is wrong. Francis should know better. Hell, Francis understands the situation better than he does. What happened to the man who _cared_?

Under the haunted orange light of the fireplace, he almost looks like one of the vampires of old. How many times must he have died by another's hand? An undead creature roaming the streets, sustained through the life of the butcher on the block, the beggar outside the building. And now, inhabiting a state of dying opulence.

"_I confess that in both these cities there were stock-jobbers, brokers, and men of business, who sucked the blood of the people in broad daylight,_" England quotes, "_but they were not dead, though corrupted._"

France glances up, startled.

"_These true suckers lived not in cemeteries, but in very agreeable palaces._ The Philosophical Di—"

"Ah, so you speak of elites?" Francis snarls, leaping to his feet. "_I_ am not the one quoting Voltaire from memory."

"And neither am _I_ the one who instantly recognized it as Voltaire," England shouts. He jabs France in the chest, hard. "Get _out_."

Without bothering to wait for a response, he grabs him forcibly by the collar and begins herding him down the shadowed hallway toward the looming front door. Francis tries to protest as he is dragged from the couch, but he must have realized at some point that no amount of begging would persuade the other man, because then he abruptly falls silent.

Panting, Arthur wrenches open the door. Through the impenetrable darkness, it's begun to rain.

"Good luck finding a hotel that will host a Frenchman," he hisses spitefully.

And he shoves him outside.

* * *

_**Les Invalides, Paris**_

"Sir, you shouldn't be here after closing hours."

The cool night air whips him in the face as he is escorted out the base level of the dôme, accompanied by two disgruntled museum guards who look profoundly fatigued. They flank him on either side, preventing any possibility of escape. Like a good gentleman would, France only follows along nonchalantly. "Ah," he objects mildly, "but—"

"Napoleon's ghost could be prowling at night," the other guard interrupts with a yawn. He seems definitively past the point of giving a shit. "Could have been haunted since 1861."

"Ah, Napoleon," Francis sighs cheerfully. "He still visits me sometimes. Hollers about how I'm a useless transvestite whose only interest is in removing his trousers for his enemies."

Down the front steps they go, across an ocean of pebble and dust as shadow-netted trees claw at the black Parisian sky. He bundles his scarf tighter around his smooth neck. It would appear that his nighttime stroll has been suspended, but no matter.

As they approach the stone wall beyond which the vacant parking lot lies, France stops and turns until he has both their attention, then raises his eyebrows. "Ah, sirs, when does the place open?"

"Opening hours are from 10 AM to—" the left guard squints. He halts in his tracks, then peers at him in confusion. "Hold on, have I seen you before?"

Francis grins, careful to maintain eye contact with each of their gazes. "Well, that depends on what you mean," he laughs. "I certainly was at the ticket office this afternoon. Or do you mean at the station last week, on Line 14…"

Slowly, he begins backing up along the dirt road, disturbing pebbles with each leisurely step. The two guards stare back at him with their jaws dropped, as if fixed in some strange trance.

"Wait…" the other falters.

"Well, I certainly hope you two will take care!" the Nation calls with a wink, then spins and strides away. "Good night!"

By the time they start to regain their senses, Francis has already stolen through the shadows of the towering columns overhead and beneath the darkened mouth of the museum. All around him, eyes contemplate him from beneath false brows and unaffected curls, some trapped in paint and others in white marble. Chandeliers dangle above, hardly illuminated by such shy moons and yet shyer stars. For a moment, he allows himself to stand in the dim silence, to listen to the breeze as it stirs the dust beside his feet.

Then he catches shouting from outside the building, and he exhales softly.

As quietly as he can manage, he grips the low-lying barrier between the circular walkway and the mosaic bearing Napoleon's tomb. Then, with practiced ease, he swings his legs over to the other side and hops onto the space beyond.

"Sir?" he hears.

Tiptoeing the whole length, he sidles over to the opposing face of the granite pedestal by the center of the floor. The sarcophagus is a voiceless sentinel as he lifts his gaze upward to the barely-visible murals scrawling the surface of the dome. What a grand architectural display for a man so dead. Someday, he knows, even this will fade before the unflagging reel of time. When the last of Napoleon ebbs away inside his final home of oak-ebony-lead-mahogany-iron, there will just be _this_. Guarding his legacy.

"Sir?"

He waits.

He hears footsteps, then nothing. A distant shuffle of hands heats the sole inch of warm air in this place. Outside, trees mumble. He stands there beneath the coffin of the deceased emperor and _stands_ long after he's certain the guards are gone.

* * *

When France comes back home, he finds England huddled on the burnished floors, heaps of open volumes surrounding his feet. The unfortunate shelf has almost been pillaged bare, but he doesn't complain. He's used to worse.

He relates the tale of his audacious escapade over a sizzling pan of _coq au vin_, watching Arthur in the living room from the corner of his vision. When he's finished, the other man simply lifts his brows.

"You have nerve."

"I have been told." Francis blows a kiss from the mellow glow of the kitchen. "And what are you doing?"

"This?" Arthur snorts. "Oh, looking at your books."

He takes a proper look at the books then, at the gold-edged paper and the time-torn binding. Something sad and low and old and sad tugs at him then and he frowns, pausing for a second to ignore the stove. "I have not flipped through these in a long time."

"Is that so."

Dinner is served hot with Burgundy alcohol that night, and all the way through his glass he thinks of burning dead things in the flames trickling down his throat.

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**\- A/N -**

**Hey! Happy holidays, Gev! Hope you enjoyed this. :P**

**A happy holidays for everyone else as well!**

**~ Reviews are appreciated ~**


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